Hunted
by Kovukono
Summary: The middleman for a poaching company goes on a routine trip to Africa. Oneshot.


**A/N: All characters belong to Kovukono, and are not to be used without explicit permission. The views expressed in this story by Kovukono may not represent those of Kovukono. This was just a story I've had kicking around in the back of my head for years, and finally wanted to get down on paper.**

oOo

The alarm went off, the sudden, jarring tone waking him. It continued to blare through the apartment as he groaned, reluctant to remove his head from the cushioned bliss. He reached over and found the alarm clock, hitting the snooze. Seven minutes later, he was disrupted again, the sound seeming to blast through the entire apartment. He found a more permanent, satisfying solution, gripping a hammer on the floor and smashing in the clock.

He groaned again and slowly stood up, hands rubbing his eyes. He dropped them, looking around at the apartment that was being newly renovated. There were a few tools scattered around here and there. He'd come back to it later. He groaned and stood up, letting his back pop as he made his way to the shower. The sun wasn't up yet. The sun was never up, it seemed. But fighting traffic was far better than missing the flight altogether.

He let the shower revive him before he finally walked out, staring out the patio window, New York slumbering beneath him. He reached over to grab some coffee from the pot, cursing to find out he'd forgotten to set the alarm. He set it to brew and dressed, then began checking his bag again. He opened a small safe and flipped through the passports he found inside. John Smith. Johnathan Waters. John Abbot. The one he hated the most, Johnny Cash. He tossed them all back inside except the Smith one and closed the safe after taking some dollar bills.

He put the finishing touches on his bag and headed out the door. He was leaving on the eleventh. If he played his cards right, he could be back within a week, and a healthy payment could be on his way to his offshore account. And then it was back to renovating the apartment. He sometimes wished he could stay longer. Africa certainly could be a majestic, beautiful place—at least near the tourist resorts.

He hailed a taxi, his plane taking off two hours later.

oOo

The plane touched down for the final leg of his journey, and he stepped off. He hated flying. It wasn't the actual flight that bothered him, but rather being stuck in a terminal or a tiny, cramped seat for over twenty-four hours. As it was, he generally found himself putting on headphones and trying to drown out the world for most of the journey. He went to the baggage claim and saw a sign held by a young man, no more than fifteen, that read "SMITH."

He looked around carefully, very carefully, letting the kid stand there. He waited with the others, looking at the baggage claim with only brief glances over. He didn't recognize the kid, and that worried him. After twenty minutes, he finally walked over, the kid still expectantly turned toward the terminal door. "You're not the usual," he said.

"My apologies, sir," the kid said, holding out his hand. "I thought that might be you, but I couldn't be sure." The kid's accent was thick, nearly too much for John to make out.

He took it. "What's your name, kid?"

"Mano, Mr. Smith."

"Odd name."

"My mother gave it to me, sir. You can take it up with her."

John smiled. "You've got a car?"

"Of course, sir. It's right this way."

John hefted his luggage and followed him. He put it into the back of the jeep and let Mano get into the driver's seat. "Now how do I know you're with the company?" he asked, pausing with one foot in the car.

Mano reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like a passport. John flipped through it—it had a similar style to a passport, but instead of visas, it carried job stamps, dating back for two years. John recognized the initials by each one, the letters having become familiar over his time spent with the company. He handed it back. "Good enough." He shut the car door. If Mano really was working for the government, he'd already turned up shit creek as soon as he walked up to the kid.

"Very well, sir. It's a bit of a drive—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Wake me when we get there," John said, taking a hat and sunscreen out of his bag. He rubbed the sunscreen over his arms and put the hat over his head before dozing off as the Jeep started on its journey out of the city.

oOo

He woke hours later as the car came to a final stop. He felt Mano's hand on his shoulder. "We're there, sir." He opened his eyes to see where 'there' was—it was the middle of a small village, one he knew fairly well. More specifically, he was outside an inn he'd stayed at whenever he came. The money the company brought here allowed the village to be better-renovated than most, with actual buildings put up instead of the usual shacks made of whatever salvageable materials could be found. He nodded, then got out, stretching as he watched the sun disappearing over the horizon. "I'll see you at eight," he said to Mano, taking his bags out of the jeep.

"Very well, sir. Eight tomorrow." Mano drove off, leaving John to walk inside. He walked to the innkeeper's desk and put a couple of bills on the table, speaking in broken Swahili about renting a room. The innkeeper nodded and handed him a key, and John took his stuff up to his room before locking the door and heading down to the pub that made up most of the bottom floor of the inn. The company could afford to keep a bar with foreign brews—or rather, couldn't afford not to. The times mercenaries did stay over on company business, they demanded the best—and the prices were set so only they could really afford it.

John sat down at a table with a few occupants already, recognizing only one of them, Francois. The mercenary laughed as he saw John. "Of all the people I'd expect—sit down, sit down, my friend! What are you doing here?" he asked, the French accent clearly showing through.

"Same as always, Frank. Usual routine check-up on the wares."

"I just didn't expect to see you come through."

"What do you mean?"

The other mercenaries stared at him—he had only now realized they had fallen silent when they heard his accent. ". . . You mean you don't know?" asked Francois quietly.

"Know what? What, what's the joke?" he asked, looking at them.

"They, er . . . they grounded all the flights in the U.S. yesterday."

"What for?"

"There was a terrorist attack," said one of the mercenaries, his accent clearly marking him as some sort of Eastern European. "Two planes hit the World Trade Center, and one crashed trying to hit your Pentagon."

John looked from face to face, the color draining out of his. "This is a joke, right? You're joking." Francois shook his head silently. "You can't be serious!"

"It's been all over the news. Look, I'm sorry—"

"_You're_ sorry? My brother works there!"

". . . Jesus, John, I didn't know," said Francois as John stood up, his chair tipping over. He made a beeline to the front desk.

"Telephone. I need the damn telephone—"

"No long-distance! No long-distance!" said the innkeeper, waving his hands.

"Look, I need the phone!"

"No, no, no—"

John reached out and pulled out his wallet, slamming three crisp one-hundred dollar bills on the counter. The innkeeper's eyes widened. "Telephone!" The innkeeper took the bills quickly before putting the phone on the counter. John dialed, and after a couple of agonizing rings, he got a busy tone. He called two more times, with the same result.

He went back to the table, his movements slow and his mind clouded. He sat down, staring at a spot beyond the table, the others turning quiet as he did so. "So what was the news, John?" asked Francois.

"Phone's busy."

"Yeah . . . yeah, lot of phones are still busy. Lot of people trying to call."

"I think he's—"

"John, you don't know! And until you do, don't go crazy worrying about it! Look, relax, unwind—you can't go insane over something you don't know!"

"I know," he said quietly. His beer was pushed into his hand by someone and he automatically took a drink. "I'm just . . . worried."

The other two men stayed for about fifteen minutes, then excused themselves to their rooms, leaving John and Francois alone. John simply drank whatever was put in his hand, thoughts flying randomly through his mind. He finally was led up to his room by Francois, his arm draped over the mercenary's shoulder, almost too drunk to walk. "Frank, I think he's dead."

"You are worrying over nothing. Look, you need a release. What say you go out and get a taste of the trade tomorrow?"

"A—a what?"

"You go out, and you get to go ahead and do the whole hunting thing. Take back a prize of your own, maybe. A tooth or something."

"I'm not good with guns."

"You can learn. They can show you. You'll forget all about this."

"If you say so," he said, watching Francois open his room.

"I do say so." Francois helped John over to his bed, then let him drop on it. John was asleep before Francois closed the door.

oOo

John woke with a splitting headache, then reached to the nightstand for his Advil. He cursed, finding none, and couldn't remember the night before. He looked around for some sign of his suitcase and found it where he'd left it last night on the floor. He unpacked, got out two Advil, popped them in his mouth, then got two more and swallowed them down.

He sighed, his body relaxing, then his head jerked up as he remembered in a panic. He dressed in a hurry, then ran to the front desk. "Hey—hey, telephone. Telephone." The phone was put in front of him, and he called his brother's home. He got his voicemail and cursed, dialing again. He got it again and left a message, telling him to call him back as soon as he could. He sighed and went to the room again, checking through a few oddities before finally going downstairs again, his headache pounding. He sat at a table, got some eggs, then saw Francois sit across from him.

"Feeling better?"

"I have never been this hung-over."

Francois laughed, John gripping his own skull as the noise echoed. "So, what did you think of my offer?"

"What offer?"

"That you go hunting."

"I don't remember you saying that."

"It will relieve some stress. Come now, you need it. You are tired, you are tense—you need to relax a bit."

"By killing something."

"It seems to be what works for you Americans."

John rolled his eyes. "I have warehouse inventory."

"Give them another day to fabricate the books. You won't miss much."

"That's the truth." He sighed. ". . . Fine. Fine. Someone will show me how to do it all, right? And I won't get caught?"

Francois nodded. "Of course. I talked it over with your little chauffeur. Besides, you know they're probably going to be looking suspicious at anyone—and you cannot really afford that."

John held up his hands. ". . . Alright. Alright, Fine. Just let me finish my eggs."

oOo

John stepped outside a few minutes later, now carrying the knife Francois had given him. For skinning, Francois had said, though it was clear to the both of them that it had been done for protection, though from what, John didn't know. The pistol he'd given John was definitely not for skinning. He saw the kid that had driven him here, waiting with a pickup truck. "What's your name again?" he asked, stopping by the car.

"Mano, sir."

"Hmm. Well, Mano, Frank said you had something planned today."

"Mr. Frank-swa said you wanted to go hunting."

"Sure," John said. "Sure, why not?" He got in the car.

"Have you been hunting before, sir?"

"Nope."

". . . Have you used a gun before, sir?"

"Nope."

Mano nodded, seeming to think as he started the car. John stared at him, then moved his gaze to the savannah. He watched the scenery go past, the unhindered sight absorbing his mind and seeming to lessen his headache just a bit. It was only when he was half-way there when a piece of impossibility hit him. "Mano, how're we going to carry this—whatever we shoot—how're we gonna get it back to the village?"

"We put it in the truck."

"Yeah, right—but how do we get it in the truck."

"We carry it to the truck."

". . . From over there?"

"Sir?"

"Look, if I'm gonna get mauled by lions or tigers—"

"We can leave it, sir, but the company will not be happy."

John had nothing to say to that. He waited while they drove on, the hot sun beating down on him. "What would you like to shoot, sir?"

"I get a choice."

"Yes, sir."

"Uh . . . a, uh . . ." John rubbed some of the sweat out of his eyes. "How about a lion?" That sounded good.

"Very well, sir." The pickup finally stopped in the middle of the savannah, and Mano checked the mirrors before finally getting out. He got out and John followed, watching Mano vault over the side of the pickup. There was a tarpaulin in the back of the pickup that John hadn't spotted. Mano reached under and grabbed some binoculars, looking around carefully before finally putting them under the tarp, then pulling it completely off.

John saw a box underneath, then saw Mano open it. Inside lay a carefully cared-for rifle on top of padding, at odds with the rusted pickup and worn box. Mano took it out and held it out to John. "Come up here."

John got into the back of the pickup, taking the rifle gingerly. He looked at it, the rifle warm despite being in the box and under the tarp. He aimed down the sights amateurishly, then grabbed the rifle by the barrel and held it, hissing as the metal burned his hand. He dropped it, Mano catching it. "This is not a toy, sir. Please be careful."

Mano handed it back, and had John bring it up to his shoulder and crouch in the back of the truck. He showed him how to aim down the sights, and had him pull the trigger a few times to get the feeling of holding the rifle. He finally took the rifle from John and loaded it, putting a round into the cartridge.

As soon as John took it, the realization hit him. This was a _gun_, a fully-loaded weapon capable of killing someone. He could hurt someone if he wasn't careful. He could _kill_ someone. He was scared of the rifle, and Mano seemed to see it. He put the butt of the rifle to John's shoulder. "There are lion over there. Shoot, we get, we go home."

John nodded. He took a deep breath, then pressed his eye against the scope. He saw the group of lions, simply laying there, a few of them cleaning each other. Stupid beasts . . . He gripped the gun a bit more tightly, slowing his breath, the weight of the rifle becoming heavier in his arms. He slipped a finger under the trigger guard, still looking for a target. He blinked as one of the lions suddenly whirled to him as the scope centered on its head. The lion simply stared at him, the tail flicking slightly, not the merest sign of self-preservation showing. John's finger tightened on the trigger, and suddenly the car lurched, the rifle going off as it fell to the floor of the pickup.

"What the hell was—" John froze as he saw a massive lion, easily twice as big as any other one, sitting in the back of the truck where Mano had been. Hell, it could have _eaten_ Mano. The rifle was too far away—John reached into his waistband and pulled out the pistol that Francois had given him, the trigger refusing to pull. The lion snarled and swatted it away, advancing on John. It placed one of its massive paws, as big as John's face, on top of his chest, claws almost as long as his fingers sliding out. Panicking, John drew the knife he'd been given, and stabbed it into the lion's paw.

The knife _shattered_.

John looked up at the lion, the maw of fangs leaning down toward him. He felt tears streaming down his face—he never wanted to die, not like this. The lion opened his mouth, and hot breath washed over John as he heard words forming: "Why do you do this, Johnathan?"

There were a few seconds of surprise before John finally offered up, "What?"

"You are the reason that so many of my creatures die—for simple tokens of their body, nothing more."

"I—I don't—"

"You sell trinkets of death so that you might live a life of luxury. Does that sound like the work of a good man? Is that the life you want?"

"I—I just work for the company!" John protested. "I didn't know about any talking lions or—"

"You _choose_ to work for the company," the lion said, his rumbling voice gaining the faintest hint of a snarl. "You choose to work for those that would take the last of us from the face of the earth, simply for a few more pennies. And you can choose not to."

John simply stared up at the giant, talking cat, transfixed by the brilliant, orange eyes. This is it. I am going to die. His eyes noticed the rifle and he began to reach for it as slowly as he could. If he could just grab the butt . . .

The lion seemed not to notice—or perhaps he simply didn't care. "I will give you this choice. Leave this place, Johnathan. Return to your home, and burn all you have bought. Start anew, and we will spare your life."

John barely heard him—his fingers clasped firmly on the rifle. He used all the energy he could to hit it against the lion. The lion looked down, taking a couple steps back. John grabbed the butt of the rifle with both hands and smashed it against the head of the lion, the lion snarling and taking a few steps back.

John scrambled to his feet and vaulted over the side of the pickup, only to see the entire lion pride now sitting right in front of him. He yelled in terror and opened the door of the pickup. Keys—keys—keys were still in the ignition. He turned on the engine and roared off, leaving the lions behind, sitting in the grass, watching him as he sped off in the wrong direction.

oOo

Francois kept looking at his watch. He hadn't seen John come back—maybe he'd slipped back for inventory without him noticing, then left. It was possible. He'd taken a nap for the night shift tonight—yet it was almost midnight and no one had so much as seen John. It was a worrying prospect, to say the least.

The few heads in the bar turned as the door slammed open and John stormed through, looking around. He spotted Francois and ran over, grabbing Francois's shirt. "Frank—Frank, they're going to kill me!"

"Who? Who is?" he asked, the other mercenaries looking at John, alarmed.

"Lions! They're going to kill me!"

"John, sit down. Why are lions going to kill you?" he said, easing John into a seat. He motioned and a shot of something strong and alcoholic was slid across the table. He pressed it into John's hand.

John raised the glass to his lips, his hand shaking. He drank, then set it down. He told them the story of what had happened. By the time he was finished, with a couple of interruptions by Francois, he had gone through several more shots. "Alright, John, I want you to level with me," said Francois. "Is this just a way to say you lost the weapons I gave you?" The others laughed.

"Dammit, it happened!" yelled John, slamming his fist on the table. "It really happened!"

"There are a hundred more plausible explanations—heatstroke, for one. Lack of sleep. You hit your head on something. Maybe a bit of drinking on the job . . ."

"It HAPPENED!" screamed John. "Goddammit, you have to believe me!"

"Look, we will talk tomorrow, when you are a little less drunk." He helped John up, and nodded to the others. They rose as well. The last thing they wanted was their bar trashed by a madman.

"I'm not drunk—"

"John, you need some sleep. You have to know that." Francois began leading John upstairs.

"I don't want to sleep. I don't need to sleep. I don't want to go in that room—I want to stay downstairs! Don't do this!"

"Listen to yourself, John! You are talking crazy! One night of sleep." Francois pushed him in and closed the door. He locked the door with a key one of the mercenaries handed him.

oOo

John whirled around, looking at the room, the moonlight illuminating most of it. There was nothing there. Nothing that he hadn't left there. Maybe . . . maybe they were right. And—and they were downstairs. Guarding him. And no one could get past them—

A pair of orange eyes opened as he heard a key turn in the lock. A snarl rippled across the room.

oOo

"LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT!" the mercenaries heard John scream desperately. The door shook with frantic pounding.

Francois pocketed the key. "Leave him until tomorrow. He will stop in about an hour, probably." He began heading down the stairs. "Poor bastard let his work get to him."


End file.
